


In the Distance, Fading

by Northern_Star



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Denial, Explicit Language, First Time, M/M, Misunderstanding, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-13
Updated: 2010-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northern_Star/pseuds/Northern_Star
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting eliminated from the playoffs means the end of more than just the hockey season for Carey Price and Jaro Halak this year. And when Jaro gets traded to another team, it seems as though the death knell has sounded on a relationship that never quite got very far off the ground in the first place. But despite the odds stacked so high against them, is there still a chance they can be together in the end?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Link to art/fanmix by solookup** : [Right here](http://solookup.livejournal.com/1091082.html). :)
> 
>  **A/N:** When I first thought of writing this story, the idea was for a fic where _Carey_ got traded... Of course, then real life happened (or hockey, anyway) and Jaro was traded to the St. Louis Blues. And after rewriting this fic about a million times and a half, I ended up following real life events a lot more closely than I had ever planned, and liking this story a whole lot more than the original idea I'd had. I hope you'll enjoy it as well!
> 
>  **A/N, the second:** This was written for . Huge thanks to and for the incredible amounts of help and encouragement they've provided me with since I started working on this. Thanks also to for suffering through parts of the first version and not being afraid to tell me how bad it sucked. lol! This fic wouldn't be what it is now without them. Also, many thanks to for the wonderful illustrations and the great fanmix she provided for this fic—it goes so far beyond what I'd dared hope to

They beat the Capitals tonight. Eliminated them from the playoffs. Even though no one believed they still could, somehow, they've won. There's no real celebration after the game though, beyond what happens immediately on the ice and in the locker room—they're all much too superstitious to go out and celebrate a victory when there's so much of the playoffs left to go. Besides, they're in Washington, they need to leave early tomorrow morning, and they've got a curfew.

But when Carey Price shows up that evening at Jaroslav Halák's room, just as he's been doing every night they've been on the road in Washington—and even going back to the last weeks of regular season—he's still high on adrenaline and victory, and very much in the mood to celebrate.

Jaro isn't quite as enthusiastic, however. For one thing, he's tired—tonight's game has been particularly exhausting—but he's never quite as excited about anything the way Carey always seems to be. Perhaps it's because he's a couple of years older, or simply because he's generally calmer and more focused on the game than anything else that goes on outside of that. This evening, however, Carey's mood is especially infectious, and Jaro gets caught up in the excitement despite himself.

For a while, they're just being silly, reenacting parts of tonight's game, and at first, when Carey pretends to shoot an imaginary puck toward Jaro with his equally imaginary stick, but trips and lands right on top of him, they start laughing. But, suddenly, they're staring at one another and things really aren't really funny anymore. They're lying there on the floor, Carey's body still mostly covering Jaro's, yet he's not making any effort to move at all, and he's just looking at his teammate, who's looking right back at him, both of them out of breath, both of them with an expression on their face that's quickly turning very serious.

"You'd make such an awful forward," Jaro eventually comments, forcing a lopsided smile on his lips.

He pulls himself out from under Carey and jumps back to his feet, then mentions another play. Their game resumes for a few moments, until somehow Carey trips over his own feet again and pulls Jaro down with him as he falls. Neither of them laughs this time around.

Jaro frowns, though more out of surprise than reproach, and he sits up. "You're doing it on purpose, aren't you?"

Carey pulls himself up to a sitting position as well. He's out of breath, his shirt seems to have lost a button or two, his hair is sticking up every which way, and he should really be laughing all of this off, but he's not. His expression is much too serious, both for the situation, and for the current state of his appearance. "What if I was?" he asks. It's barely more than a whisper. "Would that be so bad?"

"No," says Jaro, and they sit there, staring at one another, the air slowly becoming thick with tension.

"Jaro?"

"Yeah," he breathes, his body going very still.

"And what if...?" Carey slowly leans in. "What if I..." He leans in just a little more, his eyes never leaving Jaro's. They're mere inches away now.

"You shouldn't tease like that," Jaro warns him, swallowing nervously.

"I'm not teasing." He neither sounds nor looks like he is, either.

"Don't you like girls?" says Jaro. It's more of a statement then a question; something like a way out.

Carey moves back a little and smiles as he looks his teammate over. "I do," he says, "but when I watch you on the ice, you're so strong and so confident." His expression turns to something akin to awe. "You're magnificent out there. Did you know that? Because you are."

Jaro blinks, biting his lower lip, but he doesn't make any sort of move at all. He just waits. He's not the one with a decision to make, it seems. His own mind has been made up for quite some time already, but he doesn't want to force anything. Not yet. So he waits, and hopes.

"I can't help myself," says Carey as he leans in again, so close they're breathing the same air. "I want you," he finishes, a whisper against Jaro's lips, before he seals their mouths in a kiss.

And from a still, almost frozen form, Jaro suddenly springs to life once more, responding to the kiss, giving back as much as he gets. Carey's kiss is everything Jaro sees him as—eager and intense, full of energy, of fire, yet with just the slightest hint of uncertainty—it's perfect, and everything he's been yearning for in silence for weeks.

It's over much too quickly. Carey pulls back, eyes gone darker than ever, breathing hard. He smiles, licks his lower lip, then moves right back in, quick as lightning. "You taste like victory," he says, kissing Jaro again, tasting him, taking everything he can, greedily and possessively, as if he's somehow afraid the source might eventually run dry.

"Relax," Jaro eventually gasps, panting for air. "Slow down." He gets to his feet, hoisting Carey up and nods in the direction of the bed. "More comfortable than the floor," he explains with a small smile, pulling Carey along as he stretches over the bedspread.

Only a few heartbeats pass before they're kissing again; relentlessly, insistently kissing again. Bodies pressed together, hands wandering over and under shirts, fingers disappearing below belts, increasingly obvious arousals digging into one another's hip. Clothes get discarded, tossed on the floor into a haphazard pile, hands and mouths now free to explore soft skin and lean, strong muscle. And then they're lying there, naked on the hotel room bed, kissing, stroking, panting with desire; wanting, needing.

Jaro rolls off the bed with a quick mumbled, "Hold on a second." He rummages through the open suitcase on the dresser, then comes back, pressing a tiny little bottle and a small square of plastic in Carey's hand, as he joins him on the bed again.

Carey blinks, taken by surprise. "Do you always travel with these?" he hears himself asking awkwardly, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth.

"Only recently," Jaro tells him with a shrug. "I thought— I hoped, I guess, that maybe we'd need them."

"Oh." Carey looks down and stares at the objects in his hand, his courage suddenly faltering. "How do we—? Am I supposed to—? Or—?" he mumbles, an expression of uncertainty, nearly remorse, on his face. "I've never done this before," he admits after a deep breath.

But Jaro smiles, brushes a quick kiss on Carey's lips, and runs a hand gently down his arm. "It's okay," he says. "We can stop at whatever you're comfortable with. It's all right."

"No," Carey replies, shaking his head. "No, I want this," he says assertively. "I want you," he breathes as he trails kisses along Jaro's jawline, "I _need_ you." He looks up into his eyes, pleading, "Show me."

Jaro nods slowly. "It'll feel more normal to you to be on top," he says.

"Is that...all right? For you?"

"Yes," Jaro assures him. Slowly, patiently, he guides him, reassuring and encouraging through words and kisses, until stroking and fingering just isn't enough anymore, and neither of them wants to wait any longer, so he pulls away and flips onto his stomach.

"Isn't there a way that I could see your face?" Carey asks, nuzzling Jaro's neck. "I want to watch you when you come..."

"Yeah," Jaro replies in a throaty whisper. "Yeah, we can do that."

It's slow at first, and awkward, but what Carey lacks in experience, he more than makes up for in heart and intensity. It doesn't last very long at all—first times rarely do—but it doesn't matter, because when Jaro hears Carey groan in ecstasy, sees the look on his face, sending him right over the edge along with him, it's everything he hoped for and more; it's everything he wanted, and thought he'd never have.

Jaro is slowly drifting to sleep when he feels the mattress shift suddenly. Startled, his eyes fly open. "You're leaving?" he asks, seeing Carey pull his shirt back on.

"Can't have Josh asking questions," he explains, looking anxious. "Don't want anyone to find out."

"Yeah." Jaro nods, but deep inside he's a little hurt. He knows it's probably better this way—if anyone knew, it would just make their lives more complicated—but he'd foolishly hoped for things to be different, and for Carey to stay.

It's only a few minutes before Jaro is alone in his room again, a small sliver of city lights coming in through the curtains. He's alone, his head full of questions and sleep doesn't come—is this just a fluke, or something to build on? Do they have anything, or is this all he'll ever get? It already seems like so much more than he deserves to have.

He never really gets the answers he needs, because there's no good time to ask them later, and when they win again—against the Penguins, in Pittsburgh—and Carey barges into his room, pinning him against the wall, kissing him until they're gasping for air and they fall into bed again, it seems like the time for questions has passed, and he should already know the answers.

He doesn't, though. Not really. But he'll take what he can get. Because he needs this. He's wanted it for so long. And asking questions, requesting that this thing they're doing be defined somehow will only rob him of what little time he has to enjoy whatever it is they have.

It might not last beyond the playoffs seasons, but as long as he gets to have this right now, nothing else really matters.

\------

It's just a short couple of weeks later and, standing in his darkened hotel room, Jaro stares absently at the Philadelphia night sky between the slightly opened curtains. There are buildings and lights, and people shouting in victory on the street below, but he doesn't quite notice any of it. His mind is too occupied replaying images of tonight's game...

Over and over in his mind's eye, he sees himself skating away from his net, toward the blue line, toward the puck, thinking he's got a shot at stopping it, when out of nowhere Roman Hamrlík rams right into him. By the time Jaro turns around to chase the puck again, the bright red goal light is flashing, the horn is roaring, the arena has exploded in cheer, and there's nothing left to do but skate back to the net and retrieve his lost stick.

Standing here now, he would like nothing better than to forget this ever happened, forget that they lost tonight and that a lot of the blame falls squarely on his shoulders for that incredibly bad judgement call. But there's no point in wishful thinking. It's over. The season, the series, everything. It's all over now. The only thing left to do is learn from it, and move on. There will be a brand new season in a few months, with a clean slate; no loses and no mistakes. Meanwhile, he's got summer to look forward to once they leave Philly and he flies back home to Slovakia. Summer, family, friends, and a whole lot of rest, away from the media and the fans. He needs it.

All of a sudden he hears the door creak open behind him. Startled, he spins around to find Carey standing in the doorway. Jaro frowns, surprised. He doesn't remember leaving the door ajar when he came into the room. He's been doing that every night they've been on the road for weeks; Carey would always show up, win or lose, so it seemed like a practical thing to do to leave the door opened for him this way. Apparently, it's become a completely automatic thing, though Jaro can't quite tell when that might have happened. It must be automatic, at any rate, because there's no reason for him to have left the door ajar tonight; there's no game plan or strategy to go over, there isn't anything at all.

Of course, talking game and strategy isn't the only thing they ever do—they've been doing plenty of things that require absolutely no talk at all—but they have this silent understanding that when they _lose_ , talking game and hockey strategy is the only thing that's allowed to happen, and _sex_ , well, it's just another way to celebrate a win. Tonight, not only did they lose, but they've been eliminated from the playoffs. So, really, there isn't a single reason for Carey to show up here tonight. Not that Jaro minds, of course, but things being what they are, he can't think of a reason for it at all.

"You left your door open," Carey says tentatively, halfway between statement and question.

"I guess so. I didn't notice," Jaro explains, shrugging.

"Oh. I thought—" Carey sighs, shoulders slumping a little. He turns to leave. "Never mind, then. I'll leave you alone."

"You can stay. You know, if you like?" There might not be any reason for him to be here right now, but that's not a reason to turn him away either.

Carey walks in and the room goes dark again, the light from the corridor blocked as he closes the door behind him. Jaro reaches for the nearest lamp and turns it on, blinking at the bright light now shining in his eyes.

"I'm not sure I'm very good company tonight, though," he says, shrugging. "Wouldn't you have rather gone out to eat with the guys?"

"Nah," Carey replies with a small dismissive wave of the hand. "Besides, they're still hanging around the lobby, trying to figure out where they want to go. I got tired of waiting so I came back up, and that's when I saw you'd left the door open. I'd rather hang out with you anyway, especially tonight." He shrugs in a way that's a little too forced to look natural.

Jaro's lips curl into a small smile. "I hadn't realized I'd left the door open," he says, "but I'm glad you noticed."

"Gotten used to it," Carey says as he comes to sit on the edge of the bed. "Could have gotten used to it for a couple more weeks," he adds in a sigh.

Jaro sits heavily down on the bed, a little further away. "Yeah, no kidding," he breathes, looking down at the carpet.

"Hey, you okay?" Carey asks, reaching a hand to pat him gently on the back.

"I guess? I don't know... Maybe?"

"Well, if you want to talk," Carey suggests, "I'm here." He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and sends off a quick message. "I don't have anywhere else I need to be tonight," he adds, as he tosses the phone on the dresser.

Jaro doesn't _want_ to talk about the game anymore—he'll be talking about it with the media in Montréal tomorrow enough to last him for months, he's sure of it already—but he really doesn't know what else to say. Eventually, he settles for a rather lame-sounding, "I never thanked you for being there for me these last few weeks. I really appreciate it, you know..."

Carey shrugs. "All part of my brand new 'all grown up' attitude." The phone on the dresser starts to vibrate and he grabs it quickly. "Josh is still an idiot, though," he laughs.

"What?"

"He sent a four letter word response," Carey explains, and he tosses the phone back on the dresser. "Never mind..." It vibrates again, but he ignores it. "And besides, it's not like I haven't gotten anything out of this," he says, scooting over to where Jaro sits, and wrapping an arm loosely around his shoulders.

"Yeah, but that's over too, isn't it?" It's more of a statement than a question.

"It doesn't have to be," Carey tells him softly. At Jaro's raised eyebrow, he goes on, "I mean, I know we'll be away all summer, but there's another season after that..."

Jaro can't help snorting at that. Leave it to Carey to completely ignore the elephant in the room.

As much as he'd rather not think about it—especially right now—Jaro is perfectly aware that there's very little chance they'll both be playing for the same team next year. Together, they're one of the best goaltending tandems in the league, but they'll both be free agents in July and more than due for a raise, not to mention that they both deserve to play a lot more than they've have a chance to this season. It's neither logical, nor practical for the team to keep them both, and it isn't that good of a deal for either of their careers either. Which means that tonight—right now—might be the last night they get to have together. Somehow, this seems to make everything worse; to make tonight feel even more like the end of everything.

"It doesn't have to be the end," Carey says again. "Unless you wanted it to be?"

"That's not what I meant."

Carey smiles. "Just checking."

An awkward silence settles between them. They've never discussed any of this before—when they talk, it's pretty much always about hockey, and they really don't talk much when they're in bed together. Jaro has never been sure of what it is exactly that they have. All he knows is that it began in Washington, late one night after a game. He doesn't really remember why they'd been reenacting the game's highlights in his hotel room, or how they'd gotten from there to making out on his bed like a couple of teenagers, but somehow they had, and they hadn't quite stopped there, either. But they've only ever had sex again after they'd won a game—as though it was part of the celebration.

As hard as Jaro has tried, he's never been able to come up with the right word for what they've been doing, and he's pretty sure it's not due to his somewhat limited English vocabulary. If he knew what it was, then maybe he could tell if there's really a chance for it to go on past these playoffs. However, the fact that it doesn't seem to have a name doesn't make it any less real or meaningful, and it doesn't mean that he wouldn't like to hold on to it, if there was a way he knew how to.

Silence stretches, becoming so heavy that soon Jaro just can't take it anymore. This is just as bad as reliving tonight's game in his head, and he'd rather talk about anything at all than sit here like this.

"So, yeah—"

"Did you want—"

They end up speaking up at the same moment, and laugh when they realize they're talking over each other.

"Go ahead," says Jaro, nodding.

"Oh, uh, I was just going to ask if you wanted anything to eat. We could get room service and maybe find a movie to watch or something?"

"You know, I'm really not hungry," Jaro tells him, "But if you want something, go ahead. Movie sounds good, though."

While Carey makes a quick call to order some food, Jaro reaches for the remote and flips through the channels, looking for something to watch, cringing every time he stops on a station showing images from tonight's game, which turns out to be on most of them. Finally he tosses the remote to Carey, saying, "You pick. It looks like all they've got is hockey."

"Uh, yeah... Figures." He leaves it on the weather channel and turns the sound down a few notches. "I was serious, you know, if you want to talk about it..."

"No, I—" Jaro shrugs. "Not especially." He seems to change his mind a second later and asks, "It gets better eventually, doesn't it?"

Carey nods. "Of course it does. By season opener, when the announcer calls out your name, and the crowd starts cheering for you like crazy as you skate to center ice, you'll have forgotten all about the series and the season."

"That's a long time away..."

"Well, yeah. But look at it this way, you're still a fan favorite. You won't have to live through a summer of people rooting for you to be traded. You're their new hero."

"What?" Jaro asks, frowning. "You don't really think anyone wishes for you to be traded, do you?" _And besides, weren't we ignoring the elephant in the room?_

"Where have you been all season?" Carey replies with a sad chuckle. "Fans have been clamoring about it since last year. Even reporters. I've been the villain in this tale since I flipped out against Boston that one time, and all but cried about it in front of the media..." He sighs. "Not my best moment, admittedly. I haven't quite managed to get back in anyone's good graces since. You, on the other hand, you're the knight in shining armor who came out of nowhere and singlehandedly gave everyone a taste of victory and dreams of the Cup."

"I didn't do that singlehandedly!"

"No? What you _you_ call 53 saves against the Caps in one game?"

"Exhausting," Jaro says with a shrug meant to distract from the small smile on his lips. "Thanks for the pep talk."

"Any time," says Carey in a soft tone, with a goofy little grin that almost causes Jaro to completely forget what they'd been talking about.

Jaro looks away when he realizes he's been staring, and the room becomes quiet again. Awkwardly quiet again. So he suggests they look at movie listings on the pay-per-view channel, and they end up arguing over what a "good" comedy movie is—they both agree that a comedy sounds best right now: they need the laughs. They eventually settle on _Spy Next Door_ , thinking it wise not to pick that other one that's about a hockey player—they've had enough of that for tonight.

In truth, Jaro hardly cares what's playing, as long as there is _something_ going on besides long, awkward silences, during which he inevitably end up thinking too much. Besides, he wants Carey to stick around, but he's pretty sure that awkward silence can only make him want to leave. This feels like it's the only thing he has left now—after losing the game and the series—and he doesn't want to lose _this_ because it mattered a lot more to him in the last weeks than fifty-three saves against Ovechkin and the Caps ever will.

Food gets there and they settle on the bed, side by side against the headboard to watch the movie. When Jaro steals a few fries off of Carey's plate, still claiming that he's "not hungry, but you never eat them all anyway," Carey just laughs it off and places the plate between them.

It's late, and tonight's game has taken a lot out of Jaro, and soon he starts nodding off—just a few seconds at a time, but nodding off nevertheless. He's not quite so asleep, however, when his head lolls off to the side and rests against Carey's shoulder, but he pretends to be anyway. He's certain it looks perfectly innocent, though it's deliberate and in a way meant to see if there is anything more to this than just two guys having hot, sweaty sex each time they win a hockey game. Besides, if Carey minds, he'll say so, won't he?

But Carey says nothing at all, instead moves the empty plate of food to the nightstand, making slow, careful movements, mindful not to wake his teammate. Jaro fights off a smile and drifts off to sleep for good.

He wakes up when Carey gently nudges him with his shoulder and quietly says, "You're going to get a stiff neck."

Jaro moves away slowly, sitting up at the center the bed. "Has the movie been over for long?" he asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There's no light in the room besides the TV that's playing what appears to be an infomercial with the sound muted.

"Not long," says Carey, but the display on the alarm clock seems to disagree: it's a little past 2 in the morning.

"You could have woken me before..."

"What for?" Carey shrugs. "I didn't mind." He gets up slowly and stretches, stifling a yawn. "You'll sleep better on a real pillow, though."

Jaro considers him for a moment, watching as the flickering light from the TV paints shadows on his face. "You're staying, aren't you?"

He doesn't quite want to assume, because Carey never does stay. Win or lose, Carey always returns to his own room; always long before the sun comes up again. Jaro has never asked him to stay before, partly because he doesn't think Carey would have; he left very quickly, that first night, explaining that he didn't want Josh—his roommate—to find out what he was up to. In fact, as far as Jaro knows, Josh still doesn't have a clue what Carey does when he isn't in the room they share.

It's also partly because if he had asked Carey to stay, then they wouldn't just have been having sex together, they'd have been sleeping together, which is just a step down from having an actual relationship. It isn't that he doesn't want that, but relationships are fragile and a much too complicated thing to be had right in the middle of playoffs.

Now, however, is a different thing...

There's a lot of tension in the air all of a sudden, and Jaro holds his breath as he waits for what he's almost afraid to hope is a 'yes.' He's not quite sure what gave him the courage to ask. Maybe it's because his brain is still foggy with sleep, or maybe because it's just knowing that even if this makes things awkward between them, the season is over and they won't be seeing one another again for months anyway.

Or maybe it's because he's tired of pretending that, dammit, sex isn't the only thing he's after, and every time Carey has walked into his hotel room, a part of him hoped that he might decide to stay on his own. He's just not sure that he deserves to have something like that; what if it's too much to ask for?

"I'd like to..." There's a look of uncertainty on Carey's face, as if he's waiting for Jaro to outright tell him that this is what he wants. "There's not much point in me going back to my room just to save appearances, anyway. Josh has it all figured out already..."

The corner of Jaro's mouth twitches up into a lopsided smille. Perhaps he's allowed to have more than he thought he deserved, after all. Perhaps he's allowed to have everything he's spent the last few weeks wanting so badly. "Then stay," he says. "Please?" He reaches a hand up, resting it lightly on Carey's shoulder. "I'd really like you to stay."

"Yeah, okay," Carey says, barely louder than a whisper, and he leans in. "Okay," he breathes, closing the distance between them, brushing their lips together in a tentative kiss.

It's nothing like Jaro expected—it's a shy, uncertain, and much too chaste little kiss, one which he can hardly believe comes from the same guy who usually leaves him breathless with every kiss. But rather than waste time analyzing the situation, or worse, asking questions, he decides that if Carey won't then he'll just have to be the bold one, and he grabs him by the front of his shirt, pulling him as closely as he can and crushing their lips together, kissing him like he really means it.

By now, what little bit of uncertainty might have remained in him seems to have vanished completely, and Carey responds to every touch and every kiss with equal amounts of intensity. He's panting by the time he pulls back. He wipes the top of his lip with the back of his hand quickly. "You seriously need to shave," he comments in a small chuckle.

"Oh, sorry... I can—"

"Not _now_ ," Carey cuts him off right away, and pulls him into another kiss.

Deep, demanding kisses become slow and lazy, and by the time Carey pulls back again, Jaro is clearly fighting against exhaustion.

Carey gently brushes a finger down Jaro's cheek, and across his lips. "You should get some sleep," he suggests.

"I'll sleep on the plane," Jaro tells him, stifling yawn upon yawn.

"You're already half asleep."

Sighing, Jaro replies, "Yes, but... if this is our last night, I don't want to waste it."

"I told you before that it doesn't have to be," says Carey. He pulls a sheet over them and gathers Jaro in his arms, then drops a quick kiss on his forehead. "It's not the end, it's just a different beginning," he says in a whisper.

Jaro nods, and buries his face in the crook of Carey's neck before drifting to sleep.

The plane ride back to Montréal has them sitting together at the back of the aircraft, which isn't really unusual at all, save for the fact that when Jaro falls asleep, just minutes after takeoff, he doesn't even bother to try not to rest his head on Carey's shoulder. No one seems to notice, or if they do, they simply don't make anything of it, save for Josh who keeps looking in their direction, all knowing smiles and approving nods.

The flight doesn't last very long and soon they're back home again, with a small crowd of fans waiting for them right there at the airport. There are more fans, and an even larger crowd of media waiting for them in Brossard, where they're set to hold one final press conference at noon. It seems to last forever and, well before they get done with him, Jaro is already more than fed up with all of their questions, especially the ones that serve as a reminder of the fact that there's very little chance both of the Habs' current goaltenders will be playing for the same team next season. He'd rather not think about it at all, but they keep asking him what he thinks anyway, so he tries to answer as diplomatically as he can, hoping to hide the heartbreak he feels at the idea of being on his own next year.

He's still answering questions when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Carey leaving. They haven't had any real opportunity to talk since they got off the plane—not that he knows for sure what he should have said anyway, besides perhaps "call me later," which sounds so lame in his mind that he hasn't even bothered to say it out loud. He's pretty sure he doesn't have to explicitly request it anyway.

It's late afternoon by the time Jaro finally makes it back to his small apartment, a few street corners away from the Bell Centre. He crashes down on his bed, completely spent, and spends the next few hours caught between nightmares of having lost against the Flyers last night, and pleasant dreams made up of memories from later that evening. When he wakes up, reality and dreams are so tangled up together that he's having the hardest time believing that he woke up this morning in bed with Carey Price—in his arms, to be exact. It almost seems too impossible to be true.

The next couple of days are filled with travel arrangements and packing in a hurry, then going back to empty his locker at the Bell Centre where he spends a few last moments with the guys. As he's about to leave, Jaro says goodbye to his teammates, smiling warmly, wishing them a nice, relaxing summer, all the while trying hard to bury that strange feeling of finality deep down inside. A last quick glance in Carey's direction, a small nod, and Jaro is gone. Tomorrow he flies back home to Slovakia, and while he knows there will be yet some more media when he lands—that circus never really ends—he's looking forward to some peace and quiet, and some good quality time with his family, none of whom he's seen since last summer.

It's early morning—so early the sun isn't up yet—and there's a small rasp at his front door; Carey promised him a ride to the airport this morning. They haven't had much of a chance to talk since Philadelphia. There was always someone else around, or something else going on, making this morning their last chance to see one another for a potentially long time.

It's even the first thing out of Carey's mouth once he steps inside the apartment. "I hate that I won't see you again for months," he says. The expression of defeat on his face makes him look so young and fragile all of a sudden, an obvious reminder of the fact that Carey is still only 22, something which, when they're on the ice, playing against another team, is so very easily forgotten.

"I hate it too," Jaro says simply. In a pitiful little sigh he adds, "I'll miss you..."

The words are barely out of his mouth that Carey is leaning in, kissing him almost desperately, as if it's the last time he ever gets a chance to do so.

"Feels better without the playoff beard," Carey comments, and Jaro gives him an awkward little smile. A heartbeat later and they're kissing again.

Time passes, and Jaro knows they should leave—he'll miss his plane if they don't go soon, because kissing isn't all they'll be doing if he doesn't put a stop to it now. Except he's not that certain he wants to leave anymore. At least, maybe not _right now_. Perhaps he could leave tomorrow instead? What difference would it make, in the grand scheme of things?

Eventually, though, the voice of reason wins out. Long goodbyes only hurt more, and this is already much too hard. Pulling away, Jaro sighs and says, "We should go."

"Yeah, I know..." Carey leans in to kiss him quickly again, explaining that he won't be able to do it later when they get there—someone is bound to see them, and they shouldn't risk it.

Jaro spends several long minutes looking out the passenger-side window at the city he'll be leaving behind for the summer. He doesn't say a thing because, really, what is there left to say? It feels like this is the longest goodbye in his life... it started sometime that morning in Philly and has just been going on forever since then.

"So, uh, what are we, anyway?" he eventually risks asking, as they make it onto Highway 20.

"Teammates," Carey replies automatically, a frown creasing his brow.

"No, I don't mean it like that, I mean—"

"Oh!" Carey casts a glance in Jaro's direction. "Lovers, I suppose?" Looking back to the road ahead, he shrugs and adds, "And about to be stuck in traffic for a little while."

Jaro nods. "That sounds all right," he says. "Well, except the part about being stuck in traffic."

"Maybe it's a sign that you should stay?" Carey suggests in a chuckle.

"Why? You're leaving tomorrow, I'd just be stuck here all by myself."

"Well, in that case, maybe you should come home with me," Carey says, so softly it's barely more than a whisper.

Jaro considers him for a moment, uncertain if he's serious or just throwing an idea out there for something he knows full well cannot happen. "Maybe next time," he answers as he looks out the side window again, at the city and all these cars stuck on the highway with them.

The sun is up by the time they pull up at Trudeau airport, close to one of the many entrances near the international ticketing counters. There are plenty of people there, a couple of which seem to recognize them, pointing in their direction. They don't dare do anything to give fodder to possible gossip mongers, limiting themselves to wishes for a good summer, a quick promise to call when the plane lands, and, unseen by anyone outside, a tight squeeze of one another's hand.

Then, just like that, Jaro is gone. But as he sits near the departure gate, waiting for a flight bound home to Slovakia, he catches himself wishing that the destination on his boarding pass read something else instead...


	2. Chapter 2

It's not even technically summer yet, and Carey already has a list of charity appearances looming on the horizon. Some of these he's not even sure why he's agreed to, besides the fact that he's aware he needs to clean up his image a little bit, and charity events are a great way to achieve that. He'll be a free agent on July 1st, and while his stats are good, he could stand to look a little better in the eyes of the organization if he has any hopes of landing the contract offer he's hoping for.

This is how he finds himself on a golf course, of all places, with a group of AHL alumni—not that he's really spent very long playing there, but all things considered, he's still kind of a big deal. It's been a fun tournament so far, so he's not exactly sad to be here, even though golf isn't quite the sport he likes to participate in during summer.

All of a sudden, just as he's about to swing, he hears a few muffled notes of music he recognizes coming from somewhere inside his golf bag. He ignores them but steps away from the tee for a moment, his concentration broken. There are fans and media around and it wouldn't look good for him to interrupt the game so he can take a phone call. Besides, golf does have rules, one of which has to do with how much time one spends preparing for a shot. Whoever it is will simply have to call back later... or he'll call them. Later. There isn't anything that could possibly be so important that he absolutely has to take this call right now. It's June. Nothing ever happens in June.

Or so he thinks.

He plays the five remaining holes, paying no attention to the cell phone that has rung a few more times. Happy to finally be done, Carey heads toward the clubhouse, turning in a scorecard of +14. It's not bad at all, especially considering he's not the most accomplished golfer out on the course today. A reporter walks up to him, and he mentally prepares himself to thank the organizers and the fans and all that standard stuff he always tells them, a bored smile on his face, usually mirroring that of the reporter stuck covering the event.

But the reporter doesn't smile, and instead of the expected "What's your impression on today's tournament?" the man shoves a microphone under Carey's nose and asks, "How do you feel about today's big trade announcement?"

Carey steps back, blinking. _Trade? What trade?_ Nobody's told him anything about—

And then he remembers his cell phone and the calls he hasn't answered...

"I don't have any comments at this time," he politely replies before hurrying inside the clubhouse, pulling his golf bag along, until he finds a quiet spot somewhere and goes fishing for his phone.

There have been several calls, most of which seem to have resulted in voicemail messages, but he reads the two text messages first, hoping they'll provide him with the information he seeks without having to listen to endless minutes of recorded chatter. He hasn't got the patience for it right now, anyway.

The first message simply reads, " _Holy shit, dude! Have you heard?_ " but it's enough for a nasty feeling to start settling in the pit of his stomach. It's the other one, however, which really worries him; the one that comes prefixed by the long string of digits of an international number he knows backwards and forwards. It really doesn't say anything at all, just, " _Well, guess what?_ " but it makes Carey's blood run cold as he immediately puts the pieces of the puzzle together.

There are people coming toward him, their voices growing louder as they approach, and he turns to see a group of reporters, microphones and cameras at the ready. He shakes his head no, then walks off. He doesn't want to hear the news from their mouths. He's certain that he already knows what it is, but if he's going to hear it from anyone, it sure as hell won't be from them!

He covers the distance between the clubhouse and his car in just a few long strides, shoves his clubs in the trunk, and slides into the driver's seat. His hands are shaking as he scrolls through the contact list on his phone, finding the right name and hitting the green connect button after a short moment of hesitation.

He hears the telltale click and immediately asks, "I'm not going to like what you have to say, am I?"

"Oh, hi," says a tired-sounding voice on the other end. "Well..." There's a sigh and a long pause, then another sigh.

By then, Carey absolutely can't take the suspense anymore, and in an urgent tone asks, "Look, just tell me, okay? I heard there's been—"

"I've been traded," Jaro finally spits out.

The words cut through Carey's heart like a sharp blade. "Where?" he breathes, eyes closed, head falling back against the headrest.

"St. Louis," says Jaro in an almost apologetic tone of voice, crushing what little shred of hope Carey still had that perhaps, somehow, this wasn't as bad as it sounded.

Cursing between his teeth, Carey stomps his foot on the floor of his car, though it does nothing to alleviate the pain, the anger, the frustration he's feeling. This is a team they barely ever play against. It's likely they won't see one another again for a very long time. "This is just not fair," he finally says, voice just a hoarse, broken whisper.

There's a sad chuckle on the other end of the line, then, "But it's the best thing that could happen for your career. And mine, I guess."

"Yeah, because it was my _career_ I was thinking about just now," Carey says dejectedly. "Besides, you know, I kind of thought if one of us had to go, it would be me. You deserved to stay. You earned it." All of a sudden, out of the corner of his eye, he notices a reporter headed his way. "Look, I have to go, there's a reporter on the hunt for sound bytes." He mumbles a quick goodbye, then hangs up.

After that, every time someone asks him what he thinks of the trade—because he's asked, often, and by absolutely _everyone_ —he always answers that management makes the decision they need to for the good of the team. He never tells a soul what he really thinks. No one would understand why he feels this way, and he's certainly not about to explain it to them.

His heart breaks a little when he hears the interview Jaro has granted a group of reporters over the phone, and listens to him explain that he feels this is a good thing and he's looking forward to playing in St. Louis. As much as he tries telling himself that Jaro is just being diplomatic about it, Carey can't help the sinking feeling that perhaps he's the only one who truly thinks that this trade sucks.

\------

They talk several times over the summer. Not a lot, sometimes no more than a quick hello because there just isn't time. Conversations are light, benign, even. They talk about the weather, about the song that's playing on Carey's car radio, about how even the air feels different on the other side of the world. Most often than not, they talk about nothing, as if there's nothing real to say.

Before the trade, they barely talked about hockey at all. And now, ever since, they've been avoiding the subject like the plague, except that one day in July after Jaro signs with the Blues, when Carey slips in a few quick congratulatory words before changing the subject.

July melts away under the hot summer sun, and before they know it, August is already there. By then Carey has asked Jaro about a million times if he knows when he'll be coming by Montréal again, and Jaro has told him about a million times that he doesn't know yet, following up with his own perpetually unanswered question: "Have you signed yet?"

What Carey doesn't tell him—or anyone else, for that matter—is that it's for a chance at something serious with him, somewhere along the line, that he's repeatedly been saying 'no' to long-term contract offers, insisting that one year is the longest he wants to be tied down anywhere. It doesn't matter that his agent keeps arguing with him that this is ridiculous and could he please reconsider because clearly he's lost his mind. It doesn't matter because he can always play _elsewhere_. A team is a team is a team, and as long as he plays, what does it matter which color his jersey is? The logo on his chest, and the name of the team he plays for don't matter much at all in the end, but there are other things in life that aren't so easily interchangeable and that he doesn't want to have to give up. Things that, for the first time in his life, actually mean more to him than pucks and skates and sticks, and old childhood dreams of winning the Stanley Cup.

Except, he doesn't quite know how to say these things without sounding incredibly needy, or clingy. He doesn't know how he's supposed to express these things over the phone, and especially to another guy. One who, for all Carey knows, doesn't feel quite the same way about all of this.

They never really talk about the future, except to plan to spend a couple of days together whenever Jaro does make it to Montréal. Carey tries to avoid mentioning the future past that point because he's much too afraid to be told that there isn't any sort of future to talk about. Or worse, that there might have been one, but the trade has made this all null and void. He knows all too well that absence doesn't really make the heart grow fonder; it's just not true. Absence—the prolonged-due-to-hockey kind—has only ever gotten him crossed out of other people's lives, and it could so easily be the case here again. He gets a funny feeling that it's already started to happen every time Jaro cuts a conversation short, commenting on the price of trans-Atlantic phone communications.

Sometime, when he's all alone in bed at night, halfway across the world from the guy he wishes could be just an arm's length away, he tosses and turns for hours until it hurts too much thinking that this is all they'll ever have and he finally picks up the phone and calls. It doesn't seem right or fair that they might never have anything more, because Carey wants _something_. A lot of something. A damn huge amount of all sorts of somethings.

But he doesn't say any of that. And, even though some nights he feels it all start to slip away like sand through his fingers, a part of him would rather believe there's a chance than be told there isn't one. His reality has had more than enough heartbreak already, and he's not quite sure he could get through this one. So, he keeps things to himself, all neatly bottled up inside, and pretends he doesn't mind that all they ever talk about is random, insignificant things.

Jaro, on the other hand, refrains from talking about the future because he's tired of watching it get destroyed piece by piece ever since that last game in Philadelphia. He feels his universe falling apart a little more every day. He wants to hope for something, but life just keeps showing him there's no reason to hope at all this summer, and making plans for things that might never happen only hurts more in the end.

Carey keeps promising him that he'll fly in to Montréal, and they can lock themselves up in his apartment, turn the calendar back to May and pretend that things haven't changed and they're not really going to have to spend the coming months in two different cities. Jaro finds the idea incredibly appealing, though he doesn't see how it's possible to ignore reality to that extent.

He can't help be realistic about everything—it's just how he's wired—he doesn't know how to take everything as enthusiastically as Carey always does. He'd like to be able to ignore the facts, but they're always there at the back of his mind, nagging him, crushing the little bits of hope he lets himself have when he wakes up from nice, pleasant dreams, reaches for his phone and dials Carey's number.

When Carey calls, it's almost always the middle of the night in Canada and he usually claims that he can't sleep because he's lonely and miserable. But when Jaro calls _him_ , most often when he gets out of bed, meaning it's early evening in British Columbia, Carey is pretty much always on his way somewhere: parties, gatherings of friends, family obligations. Sometimes Jaro can even hear the people Carey is with complain about the fact he's on the phone. He never seems to be alone much at all, nor does he truly sound miserable. And though Jaro doesn't make any comments, he sometimes worries that Carey will eventually find someone closer to beat loneliness with. He'd never ask him to stop seeing friends and going out, of course—he can't imagine he'd have the right to do so anyway—especially considering how lonely and miserable Carey always says he is.

So Jaro doesn't say a thing, instead clings to these phone calls where they never talk about anything real at all, because they're the only thing he has left that makes him happy this summer. He doesn't know how he'll get through his first few weeks alone in St. Louis without them either.

\------

Jaro manages to organize his schedule so that he can spend a little over a week in Montréal, as opposed to the couple of days he'd originally planned to spend there. There are days when he's not quite sure if this is the smartest thing he could have done, but there's a part of him that's too selfish to let him pass up a chance at spending some time hidden in his apartment with Carey, just like he keeps promising they will. So he's planned things in a way that he could have as many of those days as he can, and though he's sure it'll only make it harder for him to leave again, he's looking forward to those few days more than he cares to admit.

Who knows, maybe while he's there they can figure things out together somehow? It's worth a try. Besides, what does he have to lose that he doesn't feel like he's slowly losing already?

He's been sitting on the information pertaining to his travel plans for a few days, waiting until Carey's birthday rolls around to let him know, keeping it as a surprise of sorts until then. It isn't that much of a surprise, or a present, but he's got a feeling they'll both appreciate it anyway.

However, when he does finally call that evening, Jaro is the one who gets a surprise—and not exactly the kind that he finds very pleasant, either.

The phone rings a few times, but when an "Hello?" finally comes on the other end of the line, it's a woman speaking. Frowning, Jaro stares at his phone's display, going over every digit of the dialed number, making sure he didn't miss one or invert a couple, but no, the number is right. He hears another "Hello?" from the woman who answered, so he puts the phone to his ear again and asks, "Who's this?"

"I'm Christy," she answers in a very bored tone. "Who're you?"

"A friend of the guy whose phone you're using," he tells her, growing more annoyed by the second. "Would you please hand it back so I can speak with him?"

"Hey, calm down buddy," Christy says in a tone that's definitely not meant to sound friendly at all. "The birthday boy is out in the back with Eliza getting his present right now. And I sure as hell ain't walking back there to interrupt them for a _phone call_."

"Fine," Jaro snaps, "I'll wait."

Christy snorts, as though this is a completely ludicrous idea. "They're going to be quite a while still, you know. They just got started a few minutes ago. And besides, she's giving him a special treatment, if you know what I mean..."

"Obviously," says Jaro, his tone dripping with distaste.

"Look, I'm just trying to be helpful here," she replies, not really trying very hard to sound patient at all. "If you give me your name, I'll tell him you called just as soon as they're done."

"That won't be necessary," Jaro says. Then, in a sudden, inexplicable burst of jealousy adds, "He can go to hell for all I care anyway!" He cuts the communication, tossing his phone across the room in utter and complete frustration.

This was bound to happen, and deep down, he knows he should have expected it. He'd just been deluding himself, thinking they could somehow maintain a long distance relationship. Not that they _have_ a relationship, really. So they fucked one another right into the mattress a few times, that doesn't amount to anything much at all. He's been stupid thinking that maybe they could find a way of making something out of that. They don't even _have_ something to begin with.

What was he thinking, anyway? This is Carey Price, for goodness sake, and he's far from being a saint. Worse yet, this is, by his own admission, a very lonely and miserable Carey Price. And considering all the times this summer where he was going out somewhere, to something, it's no wonder he's met someone who struck his fancy. He's almost always surrounded girls—especially in bars, late at night—he attracts them like a magnet, and flirts shamelessly with anything in a short skirt, simply because he can. Girls just about literally throw themselves at him in the hopes they'll make enough of an impression that he might take them home with him, something which Jaro knows for fact that Carey has done on occasion. Of course he was bound to do it again, it was just a matter of when.

It's really a wonder Jaro ever believed that Carey might act differently solely because they'd fallen into bed together a few times. That was months ago, anyway. Things have changed since then. Everything just keeps changing, and all these miles between them aren't helping at all.

They probably never had a chance, anyway. Long distance _anything_ is always a little complicated in the best of cases, but this isn't even long distance anymore, this is we-won't-be-seeing-one-another-again-for-many-many-months, and it's just too much to ask of anyone normal to sit around and wait all this time. Any normal guy would get sick of waiting, he'd get bored real fast of sleeping alone; he'd be terribly frustrated within a few months. And that's the thing, really: Carey _isn't_ a normal guy. He's a ridiculously handsome, popular, _single_ , 23-year-old hockey player in a town where fans revere them, and where girls would probably sell _body parts_ for a night of hot sex with a player who wears the CH logo on his chest.

All things considered, it's not very surprising that Carey would want to celebrate his birthday with a bang—literally at that. What's surprising to Jaro is how much it hurts to find out about it, when it really shouldn't hurt this much. They haven't made any promises, there aren't any rules, and it isn't even like they were going to have much of a future anyway. So what possible reason does Jaro have to launch into a fit of jealousy over the things Carey does this summer? There's no reason for him to even take this so hard. And yet he does. It isn't logical, and yet this hurts more than any of the blows he's been dealt since that loss in Philadelphia.

Annoyed, and feeling like his skull might crack from the pressure of all these thoughts colliding in his mind, Jaro grabs his keys and leaves. He walks for a while in the streets of his hometown, not really knowing where he's going, or caring where he ends up. It's the middle of the night, but he really couldn't care less about that. All he wants is a little bit of air before he completely suffocates, because dammit all of this is keeping him from breathing right; it really is.

The sun is nearly up when he makes it back home and falls face first on his bed. He's exhausted, but he's had time to think, and he knows what he needs to do now. It should have been clear from the start, but apparently his heart likes to disagree with his head a lot. Everything is clear now, though. Crystal clear.

They haven't even made it through a summer apart... there was obviously no way they could possibly have made it any longer. It was foolish to try and hold on to whatever shreds of hope existed that they might find a way to make something out of the nothing they started off with.

Jaro falls asleep as the sun starts coming in through the open curtains. He doesn't notice the half dozen messages left on his phone until much later that afternoon, and by then he doesn't want to listen to them—they're all from Carey, and Jaro really doesn't want to hear his excuses, or his apologies. This already hurts more than enough and there really is no need to rub salt into the wound.

Voicemail messages get deleted at the touch of a button, and he sends off a short message asking to be left alone from here on end, because he just can't do this anymore. He doesn't pick up when Carey calls again, and though Jaro reads some of the text messages he sends, he doesn't respond to any of them. It's over, and there's no point in arguing about it, it won't change a thing.

\------

Carey finally manages to find out when Jaro is going to be coming to Montréal. He doesn't hear it from him, of course, because Jaro isn't speaking to him anymore. He hasn't even given him any explanation; he just cut the lines of communications. Not that it was that hard to do, considering all needs be done is not to answer the phone—he's on the other side of the globe, so it isn't like Carey could just show up there and confront him, though he has thought of doing so anyway.

No, Carey gets the information from the media, of all places. They're planning this big charity thing in Montréal the first weekend of September; one last chance for Jaro to see his fans before he leaves for good. It doesn't take Carey much effort at all to book airline tickets and get himself to Montréal that very same weekend. It's not that much harder to get inside the building and right up to the top floor, where Jaro's apartment is.

As he walks down the short hallway, Carey can barely hear a thing over his heart pounding in his ears. He's anxious, and afraid, and confused all at once. He knows this could very well blow up in his face, but he doesn't know what else to do anymore. It's been days, and he still doesn't understand what happened exactly. Obviously, it's got something to do with that phone call on his birthday, but that doesn't explain why Jaro just all of a sudden stopped taking his calls and started ignoring him. It doesn't make sense, and Carey hates it, because he can't fix this if he doesn't know how it got broken in the first place. All he knows is that it got broken, and even though he's not sure what the right course of action is anymore, he's sure as hell going to try everything he can to make it better. He can't give up before he's at least tried. He won't. This means to much to him. He won't let it go without a fight, and there's one hell of a lot of fight in him.

What scares him is that perhaps there isn't any way to make things right anymore. He's been clinging to what little ray of hope he thought might still exist, but what if it's just an illusion and there really isn't any such thing left at all? Carey knows that he might walk out of there with nothing but a broken heart in the end. He doesn't want to think about that possibility, but he knows it exists. And it frightens him, because he doesn't know how he could go on if he lost everything over what he can only imagine has to be a giant misunderstanding for which he's not even completely responsible.

He holds his breath as he quickly knocks on the door, then waits, suddenly terrified at the thought that the door might remain closed and he'll have to turn back and leave, having come all this way for nothing at all.

It takes a long moment, but the door finally does open in front of him.

"What are you doing here?" Jaro asks, frowning. He doesn't seem angry at all, only very surprised to find Carey standing there. Surprised, and incredibly tired.

"You wouldn't take any of my calls," Carey tells him, trying to sound as calm as he can, even though there's a storm of emotions raging inside. "I just want to understand what went wrong, so I can make it right, but you shut me out. And...and I didn't know how else to get you to talk to me again, so I came." Jaro sighs but before he has a chance to say anything at all, Carey adds, "I just want to talk. Please."

"Okay," Jaro says, shoulders slumping a little, capitulating. He opens the door wider, and motions for Carey to come inside, then closes the door behind him.

Carey is barely a few feet inside before he blurts out, "Just tell me what it was that got you so mad at me."

"I'm not _mad_ at you."

"But you were," Carey insists. "You had to be! You wouldn't have told me to leave you alone if you weren't angry for some reason, it just doesn't make any sense."

"I'm not angry," Jaro tells him evenly. "I was hurt, I guess, but that only made me realize that this was never going to work, so it was best to go our separate ways and move on."

"What? No! I get that you were angry, or hurt, or whatever, but that doesn't mean everything's _over_. It's just a misunderstanding!"

Jaro gives a faint shrug. "I guess it can't really be over since it never quite began, but—"

"What do you mean it never quite began?" Carey argues, a deep frown creasing his brow. He starts pacing the room, throwing his hands in the air as he talks. "Because it sure as hell began for me! It _began_ in Washington, and you can't just end everything like this, without even telling me, as if I'm supposed to figure it out on my own! Or...or at least give me some sort of a reason so I can understand what the hell it was that I did to screw things up this time, because obviously I must have done something, right? You wouldn't have told me to leave you alone otherwise! Not like that. And I really wish you'd tell me what it was that made you do that and come to the conclusion that it was just _it_. Over. Done!"

"Calm down..."

"No, no, I won't calm down! Because this isn't making any sense, and I don't get it. I don't understand! And I won't leave until you explain it to me, either. Look, if it's about what happened on my birthday, it's not what you think!"

"Whatever it was, I'm sure I don't want or need to know," Jaro says. He looks even more tired now than he did when he first found Carey standing at his doorstep. "Besides, I know how lonely and miserable you were, so it's only normal you'd find someone closer to be with."

Carey shakes his head vigorously. "I told you, it's not what you think! I wasn't _looking_ for someone closer, I was just getting a damn massage! Why would I go looking for anyone else, anyway, when I already have you? Dammit, when I said I was lonely, I didn't mean it because I was alone, I meant I was lonely because you weren't there. You spent the summer halfway around the world, _of course_ I was miserable: I miss you!" He stops abruptly, frowns, and then says, "You really don't get it at all, do you?"

"Yes, actually, I do get it," Jaro says. He sounds too calm, too reasonable, and it completely baffles Carey. "And that's why I'm sure this would never have worked. You realize that a season lasts from October to April? June, if one of us is lucky. And that during that time we would never have seen one another? We wouldn't have the time. If you were miserable after only a few weeks, how do you think you'd survive an entire year? You wouldn't. You'd get tired of waiting around, and that's why I think that it—"

"No!" Carey snaps. "No, because we wouldn't be half a world apart! Just a few states. Less than four timezones. That's nothing at all in comparison! We can see each other during the season, I have it all worked out, there are breaks in the schedule that will allow it. Every month from October to April, there's at least one day we could have together, sometimes two. And then we can figure summers out and make the most of that, too!"

"It's not that simple. You're idealizing things a little—"

"I'm not! It could work. It _can_ work," Carey says, desperate. Then pleading, he adds, "I want this to work."

But Jaro just shakes his head, as if this is the only thing he has left to say, 'no'.

Carey's hands curl into tight fists and he exhales loudly. "You never actually wanted this to work at all, did you?" he asks in an acid tone, eyes narrow in accusation. "I guess it never meant that much to you, if you're saying it never even began at all. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised then that you don't care one bit what I think or feel, right? No, you've made up your mind and that's that, there's no going back. Meanwhile, I'm stupidly clinging to something and making plans for stuff that you don't even believe in anymore. I'm just an idiot. Clearly. I mean, I must have been delusional, because I thought you were a nice, decent guy, but that's not true at all, or you wouldn't have left me hanging like that all this time. And look at you now, all calm and stoic and reasonable, like this is just some sort of logical decision you've come to, and feelings have no involvement here at all. Don't you even have a heart at all? I bet you're probably enjoying seeing me hurt." He walks past Jaro and heads to the door which he swings open forcefully. Then, as he steps outside, he adds, "Well, you know what? I hope you're miserable in St. Louis, and that they'll hate you. And I hope while you're there you'll meet someone just like you, who'll stomp on your heart with two feet so hard it actually bleeds!"

Eyes shining with anger, Jaro snaps back, "Yeah, you know? I don't have to go that far for that. I've already met you!" He slams the door shut, locking it immediately.

Stunned, Carey stares at the closed door, more confused now than he'd been when he first arrived. It takes him a moment to recover from the blow, and several minutes pass before he forces himself to lave, broken and hurt all the way to his soul. He spends the following week holed up in his apartment, brooding, and talks to no one, save for a quick phone call to his agent telling him he's going to accept whatever contract offer is currently on the table; no matter the amount of time, or the money, he just doesn't care, all he wants is to be sure he'll be playing, because he'll go right out of his mind if he doesn't have hockey to fall back on, after he's just lost everything that mattered to him.

As for Jaro, he leaves for St. Louis the next morning, relieved to finally get away from Montréal. There's a new team and a new life waiting for him just a few hours away, and he's more than looking forward to this new beginning: a nice clean slate, free of pain, misery and heartbreak. Or so he tries to convince himself, anyway...


	3. Chapter 3

While Jaro gets a hero's welcome—literally—in St. Louis, Carey has to deal every day with the fact that he's not the goaltender this city wants to have on their team. He tries not to pay too much attention to it all, but it's everywhere he goes and everywhere he looks, and he can barely turn on the TV or the radio without hearing someone else's opinion on the trade they're all still referring to as the worst mistake the team has ever made. It's been months but no one seems to be over it yet—neither is he, really, but not for the same reasons.

No one in the city seems to be behind Carey at all, save for his teammates who remind him every day that they believe in him. He knows they're making a point to tell him, and he hates the fact that they feel that _have to_ , as if they think he'll crumble under the pressure otherwise, though in reality, he needs the confidence boost—badly so. Because everything else besides that is just a constant reminder that things have changed this summer, and for Carey they've changed in ways none of them could even comprehend. Reporters keep rubbing it in that Halák is gone, and asking him how he feels about that—he can't tell them what he thinks, of course. Just seeing the other goaltenders who are around during training camp makes it impossible for Carey to get over what he's lost. He can't even breathe for a second without something reminding him of Jaro—he absolutely can't escape it.

Carey tries as best he can to block things out when he's on the ice. He can't let himself be distracted—they're counting on him to be focussed and alert, and to block the shots that come toward him. And while it's just them, in Brossard, it seems to work relatively well. As soon as he puts the tip of a skate on the ice, he forces everything out of his mind, and becomes nothing but a puck-stopping machine, acting and reacting exactly as he should, out of instinct and years of practice and training. It works perfectly well during camp, in fact, and by the time they get to the first pre-season game on the calendar, Carey is just about convinced that he can do this. As long as he's standing inside the small, light-blue shape on the ice, right there in front of his net, Carey is certain he can block everything: aches, pains, worries—and pucks, of course.

When he steps on the ice that evening, and the entire Bell Centre is chanting his name, it's completely unexpected. Somehow, no matter what the press is saying about it, the fans are still behind him, and for a moment there, Carey feels stronger than he has in weeks. It's like he's been given wings all of a sudden. Red, white and blue wings with which to soar high above the Bruins tonight.

But the wings get yanked right off his back again when he lets a first goal through, then a second one, and from cheering _for him_ , people in the stands have turned to cheering _against_ him. It's all Carey can do to get through the half-game he's set to play, and by the time he gets replaced halfway into the second period, he disappears into the dressing room, categorically refusing to speak to the press, his confidence shot all the way to hell.

By the next morning, newspapers in any and every NHL-town there is have picked up the story of how Montréal fans have turned against their goaltender, but the fact that the press—and his teammates, of course—are siding with him gives Carey very little consolation. The season is going to be one hell of a battle—an uphill battle—one he's not certain he can win. In different circumstances, maybe he could have, but he feels alone and miserable, abandoned and hurt, and the one person he knows might have been able to help him through it all is the only person he can no longer count on; the one that got away.

\------

Jaro, of course, is well aware of what's going on in Montréal. Not that he's been making an effort to find out, but even all the way here, people talk about it, they show it on TV, and reporters go out of their way to ask Jaro what he thinks about the whole situation—he just got here from Montréal, after all, and these are his ex-teammates, so it isn't that much of a stretch to think he might have an opinion on the matter.

And he does, at that.

He thinks it's awful, and he can't think of a single player in the league who deserve such a treatment from the people who are supposed to be the team's supporters. So when reporters ask him, that's pretty much what he tells them—diplomatically, of course, because that's how he's answered every question he's ever been asked. He wouldn't dream of telling them exactly what he thinks, which is that watching the images on the news, his heart was breaking for Carey.

He's never told the press exactly what he thinks, ever. He tells them what he thinks is the proper answer, possibly what they want to hear, but never exactly what he thinks about anything at all. He has more than enough to worry about, stopping pucks during games, to want to give the media anything they could dissect and twist and ultimately use against him. He's not going to start now. His secrets are his own, and he likes it that way.

Of course, if the media doesn't necessarily catch on that there is plenty he's refraining from saying, these things are far harder to hide from his teammates. Especially one Vladmir Sobotka who isn't playing now due to injury and hence spends all his time observing his new teammates. And perhaps it's because they're both outsiders—like Jaro, he's been traded to the Blues over the summer—or pehaps because they hail from what used to be the same country, but Vlad seems to have a knack for deducing all the things Jaro isn't saying.

The morning of their home opener, after practice, reporters seem a little more insistant than usual and some of their questions leave Jaro a little frayed at the edges. He knows how a big deal the home opener is, and doesn't quite need them to remind him of it, nor does he particularly care for them asking if he's happier to be here now, considering how they've taken to treating goaltenders in Montréal these days.

Vlad takes him aside almost immediately after he escapes the reporters. "Is everything all right?" He speaks slowly, enunciating every syllable carefully.

Jaro frowns, surprised to hear Vlad address him in English. "Wouldn't this be easier if we spoke our own languages?" he asks in the harsh, rolling tones of his native tongue. He knows that Vlad makes it a point to speak exclusively in English on Mondays, but that doesn't explain why he's doing the same now.

"Oh! Well, today is first game of the season," Vlad says, answering the unspoken question, "So it count as Monday." He smiles widely, ignoring the fact that Jaro is rolling his eyes at him, and steers the conversation back to its original topic. "Many things going on in your head, it looks like," he says gently. "You know, if you want to talk, I would listen."

"I'm fine," Jaro replies with a shrug. "Just first game jitters, I guess."

"Ah, yes, of course, but..." Vlad cocks his head to the side, an expression of sympathy in his eyes. "You look, I don't know... sad, I think. You missing someone, yes?"

"No," says Jaro dryly.

"I think someone in Montréal, because the way you react when they ask questions."

Jaro grunts noncommittally and starts walking away, but Vlad clamps a strong hand on his shoulder to keep him from leaving.

"Is teammate you miss, isn't it?"

"Is none of your business," Jaro replies, imitating Vlad's incorrect use of grammar, and he shrugs his teammate's hand off his shoulder.

"Wait, listen!" Vlad insists. "I know it is hard." He lowers his voice as he confesses, "I had someone I miss now, too. In Boston. I understand, you know."

Jaro sighs, frustrated by Vlad's insistance. "I'd really rather not talk about it," he says.

"Okay," says Vlad, nodding. "But if you decide you want to later, I would listen. And keep secret, of course."

"Yeah, all right," Jaro replies as he leaves, though he really has no desire to talk to anyone about any of it. Especially today, when he needs to get his focus back on the game, and the job he's supposed to do, none of which has anything to do with Carey Price, or how he's being treated over there. And the fact that Jaro feels sorry for him to the extent where he starts feeling guilty for the way things ended between them is completely besides the point.

\------

Days pass, and games fly by, and while the Blues are enjoying a great start to their season, things aren't working out quite so well in Montréal. The Canadiens seem caught in a nasty downward spiral that they can't break free of, and Jaro doesn't need anyone to tell him that Carey is getting the brunt of the blame for their lack of success. That their forwards aren't shooting on the opposing goal much at all doesn't seem to factor into anyone's opinion of the goaltender they still can't seem to get behind.

Jaro is doing a good enough job of keeping things compartmentalized in his head so that what happens outside the ice doesn't affect his goaltending duties, but when he steps off the ice, it's all he can do to stop his thoughts from drifting to Carey all the time. As hard as he tries, Jaro can't keep his heart from breaking at the thought of what he's going through, and how badly he must be suffering from the treatment he's been getting from the fans over there.

Worse yet is that all this feeling sorry for Carey is making Jaro regret a lot of things, namely all the damage he's done, and what he's given up.

"Is him you miss, no?" Vlad asks one evening, as he catches Jaro staring at the television set in the sports bar where they're having dinner. The television set that's displaying highlights from a Canadiens' game that's just ended.

"What?"

"The goalie," says Vlad, "Price." He nods toward the screen. "You always look up when they mention his name."

Jaro shrugs. "Yeah, so?"

"You miss him."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Jaro replies, frowning, and he forces himself to stare at the table and his plate of food, not looking up even as he hears the TV announcer tell the audience they're going back live to the dressing room for an interview with the Canadiens' starting goaltender.

Vlad laughs softly and says, "It's okay, you do not have to tell me if you not want to." A few short moments later, he lets out a muffled expletive and grabs Jaro's arm. "Look!" he says, and he points to another television set, that's showing the same images he's just seen, but with enough of a delay that they're just starting to air the interview now.

Jaro looks up just in time to catch Carey's answer to whatever question it was that the reporter just asked him.

 _Answering_ isn't quite the right term for what Carey is doing, however—flying off the handle would be a more appropriate description. The young goalkeeper is livid and shouting, "Would you stop it already? All of you! I'm sick of all your damn comparisons! I'm not him, and I'll never be him, so just stop it already, okay? Because I get that no one around here wants _me_ at all. No one! You all miss _him_ , and you want _him_ back, and hell, you know? I'd give up an arm and a leg to have him here again—" Right then, the team captain comes to Carey's rescue, all but jumping in front of him and shoving cameras out of the way, telling reporters that the interview is over now. The images go dark almost immediately.

Jaro blinks in disbelief. "Bastards," he mumbles under his breath. The images start playing all over again on a third TV set in the bar, and by then, Jaro's hands are curled into tight fists around his utensils.

"You know, maybe you should tell _him_ ," Vlad says gently, and he pats Jaro lightly on the arm.

"What?" asks Jaro, frowning as he looks to Vlad. "What are you talking about?"

"He misses you," Vlad explains. "Certainly you have noticed, yes? Well, I can see reasons why you do not want to tell me this, but I think you should tell him that you miss him too."

Jaro sighs, frustrated, but Vlad nods encouragingly. Of course, he's right, and Jaro knows it, and he's tired of the charades, because it's obvious Vlad sees right through him, and it doesn't look like he wants to let go of this. Seemingly out of options, Jaro looks down, shaking his head miserably, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I can't," he explains, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Of course you can," says Vlad encouragingly.

"No, I can't," Jaro insists. "You don't understand. It's..." He sighs. "It's complicated."

"That was not obvious at all," Vlad says in an exaggerated tone, making it clear that he's teasing. "But you should anyway. I think it will help. Him, for certain, but you also." When Jaro shakes his head, Vlad insists again, "Yes, you can."

"You know, you can be really annoying sometimes," Jaro says weakly, looking down at his plate.

Vlad laughs. "That is what friends are for," he says, and he pats him on the back amicably.

"No wonder I'm the only one you have left," Jaro replies, a lopsided smile on his lips.

"Oh no, I have others," Vlad says, looking down his nose at him. "But they all know better than to hang out with smart-mouth goalies."

Jaro just chuckles and starts picking at his food again.

Later, when he's home again, all alone with nothing to do but stare at the blank walls of his condo, he wonders if perhaps he should do _something_ after all. He spends well over an hour debating the subject with himself, throwing his hands in the air as he argues about it out loud, like some sort of lunatic. Part of him wants to reach out because it would be the right thing to do; the kind, friendly, compassionate thing to do. But he's not sure he has a right to do that anymore, or that he won't just be making things worse when all he really wants to do is help.

Finally deciding that he'll just go completely insane unless he actually does something besides debate the issue, Jaro grabs his cell phone, and types a quick text message, which doesn't say much, only, " _Don't let them get to you this way. You're better than they give you credit for._ " He refrains from saying any more than that, convincing himself that the only reason he's not adding things like " _I believe in you_ ," or even " _I miss you_ ," is because there's a limit to the length a message can have, and there's simply no space for any of these things.

He hits the send button, tosses his phone away, then goes to bed, knowing that, if anything, he'll at least be able to sleep tonight now that he's done this. Whatever else this accomplishes or not, he'll deal with in the morning.

\------

Carey is sitting in some bar he's not sure he knows the name of. He doesn't hang out anywhere he used to anymore—too many critics everywhere. The cabbie must have told him the name of the place, but that was a good six beers ago, and the information—like the rest of what's happened tonight—is now lost in the deep fog of his inebriated mind. It was the point of being here, anyway. Forget about the loss, forget about the damn reporter who asked him—

What was the question again? Carey isn't even sure he knows anymore.

Beer is working just fine tonight it seems, and he smiles at the fact that there's at least one thing left that can make him feel better. Of course it'll leave him with a hangover, but this he can deal with. It's the constant pain he's been living with for weeks that he can't deal with anymore. Because if it wasn't enough already to be rejected by the one person he cared about most of all, being rejected by this entire city, every day—before, during, and after every game—is just too much. He hasn't the strength for it, and the season is only a few weeks old. He should probably beg for a trade, though he doubts any other team would want him now anyway—especially with his stats so far this year.

He stumbles out of the bar sometime later and hails the first cab he sees, barely managing to give the driver an intelligible address as he slides onto the backseat of the car. Then he fishes for the cell phone in his pocket, already convinced he must have missed a half dozen calls—he hasn't been paying attention to it all night. There's nothing, however, besides the small text message indicator that's blinking.

Before he even reads the message, Carey is already convinced that it's from Josh, who's probably worried about him—Josh always worries that he might be on the verge of self-destruction these days—but upon checking, he finds that he has no idea who the message is from. It's not from any number he recognizes. The area code reads 314, but Carey doesn't even have a clue where in the world that could be.

He frowns, wondering who's messing with him, as he reads the text of the message. He can't think of anyone who would bother sending him anything like this anyway. No one supports him anymore, even some of his teammates have started to lose faith in him, and heaven knows they have better things to do than baby their goalkeeper, especially when there's a perfectly good backup who's more than willing to play in his place.

He's drunk enough that he doesn't really care that the driver will hear his conversation when he hits the button to dial the sender's number, and drunk enough not to care that it's past three in the morning and that's not exactly a good time to call anyone. He's got nothing better to do than make this call right now anyway, as they're still several miles away from downtown and his lonely little apartment there.

There's a first ring on the other end, then a second, a third and a fourth, and then a quick click and Carey realizes that his call is being redirected to someone's voicemail. His jaw drops when he hears the greeting message that comes on, immediately recognizing the voice. The beep sounds in his hear, and for a second he's almost too stunned to speak, but then the words flow right out.

"It's easy for you to say," he snorts. His words are slurred, but his tone is steady. "You have it real nice over there, while I'm stuck over here, all by myself, with no one left who gives a crap what I feel anymore. You don't know what it's like to be here all alone like this. It sucks and I hate it, dammit. I wasn't _supposed_ to be here on my own. I was supposed to be with you. I wanted—" He coughs, his throat closing up on him. "All I wanted was to be with you," he finishes in a choked sob before hanging up and shoving the phone back in his pocket.

He spends the remainder of the ride slouched in the back of the cab, staring out the window, sniffling soundly every now and again.

\------

As Jaro walks with Vlad down the hallway toward the lobby of the hotel the team is staying at, a few days later, he suddenly catches a glimpse of someone he recognizes at the far end of the lobby, and stops dead in his tracks.

"Hey, is that Hal—?" he starts, but just as he motions toward the man who could hardly be mistaken for anyone else, Jaro realizes that not only it _is_ Hal Gill standing over there, but he's not the only player from the Canadiens who's hanging around over there. "What are they doing here? Shouldn't they be in—" he scratches at his temple as he tries to remember "—shouldn't they be in Florida tonight?"

"In Florida?" Vlad echoes. "There is a storm there now, I think, no? Hurricane?"

"There is? I didn't—" Jaro's mouth hangs open mid-sentence and the words stay stuck in his throat, as he finds himself staring straight at Carey Price, who's looking right back at him with an equally stunned expression. Time seems to stand still and they're both just standing there, rooted in place, gazes locked even across the distance, until Jaro finally forces himself to look away and he turns on his heel, walking away in silence.

"Where are you going?" Vlad asks him, confused.

"Back to my room."

Vlad takes a few long strides to catch up. "Wait! Why are you going back?"

"I'm not hungry anymore," Jaro tells him, shaking his head.

"What is wrong?" Vlad asks, but he immediately seems to put two and two together and adds, "Oh, it is because _he_ is there. You saw him?"

"Leave me alone, okay?" Jaro snaps back.

"You should talk to him, not run away. You could talk face to face now," Vlad insists. "It is your chance to make things better again."

"Maybe," says Jaro in a frustrated sigh. "I don't know, okay? Just go away and leave me alone."

Vlad doesn't say a word, just nods at Jaro's retreating form before turning around again and going back toward the lobby.

Meanwhile, Jaro retreats to his room, confused, nervous, uncertain of what he's supposed to do. Or rather he knows what he _wants_ to do—he's known all along—but he doesn't know how to do it, because if he isn't careful it's all going to blow up in his face again, and he'd rather stay alone and, yes, miserable, than see things explode right before his eyes once more, like that day before he left Montréal for good. All the while, his mind keeps replaying every word, every silence, every choked pause from the voicemail message he's listened to so many times in the last few days, it's now seared to memory for all eternity. Head spinning, Jaro leans his back against the wall, and slowly slumps down to the floor.

Endless minutes pass, during which he makes interminable lists of pros and cons in his mind, rearranging them constantly, until he realizes that he's just driving himself crazy delaying the inevitable. Because there's no way he could live with himself if he didn't at least try _something_ , especially now that he's somehow been given an opportunity—a real one. He needs to try, he tells himself. There's no other choice.

So he stands up again, opens the door a little and flips one of the metal locks in a way that it'll keep the door from closing completely again. It's the same thing he's done countless times in hotel rooms from coast to coast last season, though it somehow feels incredibly foreign to do it again now. He's only ever done this for one person's benefit, and hasn't done it for anyone else since.

A deep breath later, Jaro starts typing away nervously at his cell phone. He sends a very short message, one that simply states the room number and the fact that door isn't locked. He doesn't need to say more than that, he knows; it's clear enough—it'll be clear enough to Carey at any rate, and that's all that matters.

The message sent off, Jaro paces his room anxiously. He doesn't know if Carey will come—he might decide it's not worth the effort. For all Jaro knows, Carey might not even be in the hotel anymore, he could have gone out with his teammates—maybe they've all left and won't be returning, even. There's just no way to know, and all he can do now is wait. And hope. And pace the room, because he can't help it.

He goes from one end of the room to the other and back for some time, over and over again, like a tiger in his cage. It feels like it's been hours when he forces himself to stop, though judging by the fact he hasn't quite burned a hole through the carpet yet, it can't have been that long. He's looking around, trying to decide where to sit when he hears hinges creaking all of a sudden.

Jaro's head snaps up toward the door and he watches, feet rooted in place, heart hammering in his chest, as Carey slowly walks in. He looks tired, defeated, and when he closes the door behind himself, he just stands there like he's afraid to walk further into the room, or if he's waiting for an implicit invitation to do so.

It takes a moment before Jaro's brain stops stuttering long enough to let him speak again. "I wasn't sure you'd come," he says quietly.

"Why wouldn't I?" Carey replies with a small shrug.

"I don't know."

Carey shrugs again. "What else was I going to do?" He rubs the back of his head, looks down and clears his throat before adding, "I've never really been very good at ignoring you."

"Look, uh," Jaro starts and he swallows nervously. "I'm sorry. I—" He shakes his head. "I'm really sorry, you know? I hurt you and I'm sorry."

Silence stretches between them until Carey whispers an "okay," nodding his head slowly.

"Is there, uh, is there—" Jaro sighs, then finally asks, "Is there, you know, maybe, a chance?" He gestures at the space between them. "Is there still a chance?"

"You're asking me?"

"Well, I— I don't want to assume anything. I'm not sure where you stand, so..."

"I'm standing in your room," Carey tells him without much conviction. "I think that alone ought to tell you something."

"Is that a yes, then?" Jaro asks tentatively.

"Of course, yes. I've been saying yes all along, only you never seem to hear me."

"And if I promised to listen better?"

Carey just nods, saying nothing at all, but there's hope in his eyes now where there was nothing but sadness before.

It takes Jaro less than three strides to reach him. "I missed you," he says in a hoarse whisper, reaching up to brush their lips together for the first time in so many months. "I missed you," he repeats, between kisses, abandoning himself to the feel of Carey's solid frame against his, of strong arms holding him tightly there, and soft lips pressed to his, giving into these kisses just as much as he gets back. He barely notices when " _I missed you_ " becomes " _I love you_ ," and he only realizes that he's said so when Carey suddenly goes a little stiff.

Jaro pulls back abruptly, frowns in surprise, hearing the words echoed back in his mind, and he looks up to see Carey smiling, though he seems a bit uncertain about it all.

"Yeah?" asks Carey finally, biting his lower lip as a small, doubtful frown creases his brow.

And Jaro blinks, considering him for a moment as he realizes that yes, yes, he does, and he has all along, only he's never let himself admit to it. So he nods, and slowly smiles. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I do."

"I do too," Carey tells him, a goofy little grin on his face. "I've been in love with you for, oh—" he looks up, as if trying to remember, then looks down again. "A very long time," he finally says.

Jaro smiles, relieved, but then he frowns a little and asks, "So, uh... What now?"

"Right now?" Carey replies, his expression half serious, half teasing.

"Well no," Jaro chuckles lightly. "Or yes, actually, but I mean— you know? What happens now?"

Carey shrugs a little. "We'll figure it out," he says and pulls Jaro back to him. "We'll figure it out together, okay?"

"Yeah, all right," Jaro replies, nodding. "Together." And as he reaches up for another kiss, he realizes that, of all the English words he knows, ' _together_ ' is the one he likes the most.

  
/End/


End file.
